


Yuletide Treasures

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:45:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heedless of the wind and weather</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yuletide Treasures

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 12-18-06

Time moves because it must, but there’s no way to judge it other than the shortened days and rise and fall of sun. Nothing else makes it stand apart, and eventually they forget where and when they are, taking step after step because there’s no recourse, and they have to cling to the hope of rescue, of release, of death or go insane.

So they move through their paces and tell stories and tall tales and superstitions that ring true on the boards of the ship are laughed at until the dark of night when prayers and promises are offered up, wards cast against rusalka and siren and serpent all.

Horatio listens to the men, changes things again and again so there is routine but not monotony, desperation but not despair. He forces training and discipline in the guise of games and tries to offer hope in shreds of familiarity, but it is Archie who breaks through the impending cold of winter with an impish grin and a glint of mischief.

“Pardon?”

Archie ignores the startled nature of Horatio’s gaze and presses closer, his eyes alight. “It’s Christmas.” He gestures to the sky, dark and a blue almost black in its intensity. There is the ghost of a full moon hanging heavily in the sky and the night is as cold as the depth of the sea. “Or near enough. I heard the guards talking.”

“And you want to escape?”

Archie’s eyes harden for a moment, and Horatio regrets the darkness that is suddenly there, darker still than the sky. “No, Horatio. The guards are distracted and drunk, but they’re all the more deadly for it.” There is something in his voice that tells of nights and adventures that Horatio is no part of, Archie’s past that is his and his alone. “But it is Christmas, and the men could use something.”

“And what do you suggest, Archie? That I dress as Father Christmas and offer them oranges and brandy, stuff them with pheasant and pudding?” Horatio frowns, his own eyes darkening at the tightness around Archie’s mouth, the narrowness of his expressive eyes. “I somehow doubt the Don would provide me with the means to serve up a traditional English Christmas.”

“I propose a game.” Archie ignores Horatio’s petulant outburst and sits across from him on the opposite cot, legs apart and fingers templed together between them. Horatio’s gaze follows the movement of Archie’s hands, heat flaring as they gesture and suggest, grazing Archie’s thighs in ways Horatio refuses to think on.

“A game?” Horatio drags his eyes to Archie’s, noting again the flash of humour, of mischief that keeps him as close to sane as the four walls of their cell and the short walk along the cliffs to the sea allow him.

“A game, Mr. Hornblower.” Archie stands and walks the length of the room, four paces in either direction, going a short distance to get absolutely nowhere. “We give each man another’s name and tell him that, within the confines of our captivity, within the strictures of what he can cheat, steal or get from the guards, within each man’s own ability, cleverness and daring, they are to play Father Christmas to the name they draw.”

“You want us to give each other presents?”

Archie smiles and lights up the ever-encroaching darkness. “Secretly.”

**

Horatio glances at the paper in his hand and frowns, his brows drawing together in consternation. Archie leans in, smiling as the other man closes his fist, the name scrawled across the slip in his hand hidden easily from Archie’s view. “What’s the matter, Horatio?”

“Nothing.”

“Uncertain what to do?”

“I’ve quite easily grasped the tenets of your proposal, Mr. Kennedy, I assure you.” He glances around the courtyard at the men, each of them apparently lost in thought as they contemplate the names they’d chosen. “The men seem…”

“Confused? Annoyed?” Archie leaned back against the dirty whitewashed walls and smiled up at the cool, grey sunlight. “Wondering what constitutes the perfect gift?”

“I suppose you know what gift you intend to give already, do you? Know which guard you’ll charm or cheat to secure the finest prize in the prison?”

“I have an idea or two.” Archie closes his eyes and exhales. “What about you, Mr. Hornblower? Do you have a plot percolating in that clever head of yours?”

“I think I’ll keep my ideas to myself, Mr. Kennedy.” He crushes the paper in his hand and leans in, his voice pitched low. “I prefer to keep you guessing.”

**

Matthews runs his thumb over the edge of the knife blade, closing his eyes as it slides against his skin. Horatio sits next to him, watching the moment with a silent sort of awe, leaning in. “Nice, innit, Mr. Hornblower, Sir?” He holds it out, sighting along the short blade, his eyes critical. “I mean, it’s not his Majesty’s issue, o’course, but it’ll serve.”

“Indeed, Matthews.” He taps the small block of wood with a long finger. “And you think this will suffice?”

“I do. Though I’m not sure you’re not violating Mr. Kennedy’s rules a bit, helping Winston there get me the blade.”

“You suspect Winston, Matthews?”

“No, Sir, don’t suspect him a’tall. Know it was him. Saw you talking to him earlier, saw him nearly come undone like a pup given a treat and not nearly a day later I’ve got me a very nice blade.”

“Circumstantial at best, Matthews.” Horatio could feel the heat suffuse his skin, the desire to laugh bubbling in his chest. “Afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Well, Sir, as I see it, not half a day after the evening guard on your end of the block is short his blade, you show up, very quiet, very discreet like and hand me a chunk of wood. Maybe circumstantial, Mr. Hornblower, but I figure if they’re talkin’ French, they’re likely frogs, eh?”

Hornblower does laugh, a soft sound that brings a satisfied smile to Matthews’s face. “They are likely frogs indeed, Matthews.” He taps the wood again and gets to his feet. “Mr. Kennedy says our first offering is to be to our recipients by curfew tomorrow. You’ll have enough time?”

“Not like I’ve got anything else to do, Mr. Hornblower.”

“Then I’ll let you go about your business, Matthews. And see if I can’t keep the object of our discussion well out of your hair.”

“As I see it, Mr. Hornblower, he’s in a right tizzy trying to figure out what to give Mr. Kennedy, so I doubt he’ll be botherin’ me much. You’re likely to get well tired of him by nightfall I think though.”

“Has Styles deemed me an expert on Mr. Kennedy, Matthews?”

Matthews picks up the wood and turns it over in his hands, sliding the knife’s edge along it carefully. “Closest thing we’ve got, Mr. Hornblower.” He looks up and smiles. Horatio returns the gesture, unable to resist Matthews’s amusement. “And trust me, Styles is well aware of that.”

**

Horatio watches Styles carefully, noting the brief flash of delight in his eyes as he sits for his breakfast, his gaze falling on the small package in the middle of his bowl. Oldroyd jabs Styles in the side, nodding to the dubious handkerchief Horatio had had to barter with one of the guards to get in lieu of paper to wrap the gift. “There you go, Styles. Now you can stop moping ‘round the place. Got you a gift all your own.”

“And notice how it’s a secret, lad,” Matthews laughs with the rest of the men and Styles flushes, his blunder of the day before – being chased from Hornblower and Kennedy’s cell with Horatio’s queue ribbon in his hand before shoving it into Archie’s fist with little pomp or circumstance. He’d mumbled a quick ‘Happy Christmas’ and then slunk away, wary of Hornblower’s ire which had mostly been dampened as Archie had tilted his head back and loosed a laugh into the cool air – painting his skin a burnished red.

“You all know where there’s a warm spot for you, don’t you?” Styles mutters, reaching to pull the handkerchief back. He gives a shout, nearly falling off the bench in his haste to get away, stumbling back away from the table.

“Oh, dear,” Archie murmurs, his voice far too warm and far too close to Horatio’s ear. “What is it?”

“A bloody _rat_!” Styles points to the bowl, his hand shaking. “Who thinks it’s bloody funny to give me a bloody rat?”

Horatio closes his eyes, nearly groaning in embarrassment, heat flooding his cheeks. He can feel Archie’s silent laughter beside him and wonders how easily he can take himself away from the table, and how much attention it will draw.

“Oh, calm down now, Styles,” Matthews laughs, pulling the carved wooden rat out of the bowl. “I’m sure they’d have gotten you the real thing if they could have. Besides, it’s about time you had a friend more in line with your own mental capabilities.”

Horatio shifts in his seat, the mental map of the area etched in his brain, offering him too few escape routes. He can hear Styles blustering, going on about presents and how it’s not funny when Oldroyd’s voice cuts through the din.

“Dunno. I think 'e's rather fetchin'.” He wrinkles his nose and looks the wooden creation in the eye. “What’ll you name him? Seems like he’s officer material. What d’you think? Mr. Squeaks?”

Styles moves back to the table and sits, scowling at Oldroyd, the rat and the table in general. “Yeah, I suppose it’s as good a name as any.”

Archie’s hand lights on Horatio’s shoulder. “Not bad, Mr. Hornblower.”

He stiffens then relaxes under the gentle touch. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Kennedy.”

“Do you think Mr. Squeaks outranks us?”

Horatio laughs, surprised at the seriousness in Archie’s voice. “I don’t know, Mr. Kennedy. But I promise, should Mr. Squeaks propose some outlandish scenario, I will rally the men to mutiny.”

“At least as a commander, he’d never call for use of the cat.”

Shaking his head, Horatio gets up from the table. “I think the sun is getting to you, Mr. Kennedy.”

Archie nods his agreement, leaning back to let the weak rays land on his smiling face. “You could be right, Mr. Hornblower. It could definitely be the sun.”

**

“It’s two days until Christmas, Archie.”

Archie shifts from where he’s stretched out on his cot, turning his head to catch Horatio’s troubled gaze. “Yes. I’m aware.”

“Two days.”

“Yes. You’re not usually so prone to restating the obvious.” Archie sits up and looks seriously at his friend. “Is there something wrong, Horatio?”

“Well, it’s just…it’s two days until Christmas.” Horatio gets to his feet and paces the small room, his frustration and embarrassment alive beneath his skin. “And, well, everyone’s received a gift.”

“That’s rather the point of the game, Horatio.”

“Everyone but _me_.” He curses himself at the petulance in his voice, at the weakness. “And…well. It’s two days until Christmas.”

“It is, Mr. Hornblower.” Archie gets up and moves over to the cot beside Horatio. “Which means there are two days left to receive your gift. Perhaps your Father Christmas is quite a stickler for propriety and fully intends to wait until Christmas day for your gift.”

“Wait?”

Archie smiles and offers a small laugh and shakes his head. “You’re like a child at Christmas already, Horatio. I imagine if you were home, you’d be shaking every package and guessing which Latin tome jolly old Saint Nicholas has tucked away for you. Impatient. But good things come to those who wait, Horatio.”

“Greek. Not Latin.” He smiles in return, unable to resist Archie’s amusement at his antics. “All right, Mr. Kennedy, I will sit in the water, becalmed, until Father Christmas decides whether or not I’ve earned treats or coal this year.”

“Given your antics on the high seas, Mr. Hornblower, I imagine Father Christmas would be hard pressed to offer you a mere lump of coal. Though I fear he may be a bit strapped to offer you much more in our current lodgings.”

“I wonder sometimes, Mr. Kennedy, why exactly you put up with me and my nonsense.”

“Because, Mr. Hornblower,” Archie moves back to his own cot, offering Horatio a smile before he stretches out again, closing his eyes, “every small bit of nonsense counters your overabundance of brilliance. And that is very, very hard to resist.”

“Like a moth to the flame of my insecurities, Mr. Kennedy?”

“Something like that, Horatio.” He shifts on the bed, turning away from Horatio’s gaze. “After all, everyone needs something to keep them warm.”

**

Christmas day dawns clear and bright, the chill from the night before burning off in the surprising heat of the sun. Archie nudges Horatio lightly, sitting on the edge of his cot. “Sleeping in, Mr. Hornblower?”

“Not on watch, Mr. Kennedy.” He squints at the window, the light falling in. “What time is it?”

“Nearly breakfast. Thought I should wake you in case you wanted to dump your customary cold bucket of water over your head. Or in case you wanted to see what Father Christmas might have brought you.”

“Not a lump of coal?” Horatio sits up, the rough blanket falling to his waist.

Archie shakes his head and smiles, as bright as the Christmas star. “Not a lump of coal in sight, I assure you.”

“And what did Father Christmas find fit to bring me then?”

“You’ll have to find your way out of bed to find out, Mr. Hornblower.” Archie reaches out and traces the collar of Horatio’s shirt, his eyes focused on the movement. “Happy Christmas, Horatio.”

His voice catches at the strange flatness to Archie’s eyes, the blank distance. “As incongruous as it might sound, Archie, it is a happy one. We’re safe. We’re alive. And, as of yet, Mr. Squeaks has proven himself to be a very fair commander.”

Archie comes back into his eyes with the laugh and he shakes his head. “That he has, Horatio, that he has. Though we best hasten our way to breakfast lest he find a reason to swing us both from the yardarm.”

“Do you think, should he find himself strung up, he could just chew through the ropes?”

Archie stands and waits as Horatio dresses himself, uniform as pristine as their captivity will allow. “Why do you ask, Mr. Hornblower? Planning on filing your teeth to sharpness in case you find yourself so inconvenienced?”

“Curiosity, I assure you. Mere curiosity.”

“You have more interesting things to be curious about.” Archie places his hands at Horatio’s back and urges him out of the cell. “Come on, Lieutenant. Step lively.”

“Promoted yourself, have you?”

“It’s not my fault Mr. Squeaks finds me a capable officer and jumped me over you in the chain of command. His Majesty’s Navy is a cruel service. Not at all fair.” He pushes him again. “Of course, the cheese I give him seems to help a bit.”

“Playing dirty, Mr. Kennedy. A shameful practice.” Horatio emerges from the dark hallway into the courtyard and stops, surprise etched on his features. “What is this?”

“A traditional English Christmas.” Archie gestures to the piles of fruit and colourful trinkets on the table, the laughter of the men as they chase a goose around the enclosed space. “By way of Spain.”

“Archie…”

“Father Christmas,” Archie corrects softly, the hand that had pushed at Horatio’s back now gentle in its touch. “Father Christmas wishes he had more to offer you.”

Horatio shakes his head, watching the men for a long moment before turning to Archie, the lightning flash of emotion across his face nothing compared to the tempest in his eyes. “No. Father Christmas has given me everything.”

Horatio lays back on Archie’s cot, closing his eyes, his hands resting on his stomach. He can feel Archie’s gaze as he comes in the cell, feel his slow, satisfied smile as the lock closes behind him, the guard shuffling off down the corridor. “You are quite pleased with yourself, Mr. Kennedy.”

“And have I not cause to be, Mr. Hornblower?” His steps tell Horatio he’s walking deeper into the small room, the shift of the cot beside him as Archie sits making the room that much smaller. “As I see it, the recipient of my gift was quite pleased.”

“You had several recipients to your gift, Mr. Kennedy.” He opens one eye and smiles, unable to resist in the face of Archie’s self-satisfaction. “All of them well pleased.”

“Ah. Are you disappointed that Father Christmas didn’t single you out specifically, Horatio?”

“I’ve said no such thing.”

“And never would, I’m sure.” Archie leans back, his arms on the other side of Horatio’s body, Archie’s body leaning across his, his lower back against Horatio’s thigh. “Though you feel it right enough.” He turns his head and smiles at Horatio, shaking his head. “I have to admit though, I’m a bit disappointed in you.”

“In me?” He can’t help the threat of indignation that fills his voice. “What have I done?”

Archie makes a soft tsking sound to match the shake of his head. “Had so little faith in Father Christmas.”

“I’ve told you, Archie, the celebration was lovely.”

“In your personal Father Christmas.” He straightens, slipping out of his relaxed pose before getting to his feet and stepping on the bottom bunk across from them. He digs beneath what passes for a pillow and then climbs down, settling once again at Horatio’s side, this time brandishing a bottle of wine. “Happy Christmas, Mr. Hornblower.”

Horatio sits up, his lips curved in a surprised smile. “Archie? What is this?”

“Wine.”

“I can see that.” He takes the bottle and glances at the label, his eyebrows rising. “A very fine wine. Where did you get this?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to get a direct order from Mr. Squeaks to get me to divulge that information, Mr. Hornblower. Let it rest with a very Happy Christmas and, if you must, feel free to drink a toast to my devilish ingenuity.”

“I will at that, Mr. Kennedy, provided, of course that you indulge with me.” He opens the bottle carefully, inhaling the heady scent as he uncorks it. “What do you say?”

“We’ve no glasses to toast with.”

“I promise, Mr. Kennedy, given our close quarters, there’s likely little I have that you do not. I don’t imagine it will harm us much to share a bottle.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Hornblower, there are significant things you possess that I find myself lacking; however, since few, if any, have to do with whether or not I can share the wine, I say we leave them rest for another night.” He nods toward the bottle in Horatio’s hand. “It’s your present. Take the first swallow.”

Horatio raises the bottle and tilts it slightly in Archie’s direction. “To you, Mr. Kennedy, for an ingenious idea and the ability to carry it to a most satisfactory conclusion.”

“You’ve barely taken the first sip, Horatio. Seems a bit wrong to be calling the night to a close.” He smiles, accepting the accolade as best he ever will, his eyes bright even in the darkness, the faint glow of the lamp. “So I shall drink to you, our de facto leader, for keeping his sailors in line, on land and on sea, and for inspiring in all of us a desire to do better, for no other reason that to be like the man we so admire.”

“The smell itself must be going to your head, Archie,” Horatio can feel the blush staining his cheeks, “to be laying on flattery so thick. Were it anyone but you, I would doubt the sincerity in a moment and assume you wanted something.”

Archie watches him for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. Horatio hates these moments, when Archie becomes the man he must have been, alone and on the run, dealt punishment and degradation to the point that death seemed a better option. Still, he holds Archie’s gaze, unwavering. “And what is it about me, Mr. Hornblower, that makes you so sure I don’t want something?”

“What is it you want, Archie? All you need do is ask.”

“There are things you don’t ask for, Mr. Hornblower. Things you take. Food when you’re starving. Drink when you thirst.” He takes another drink and Horatio finds he can’t look away from the strange heat in the coldness of Archie’s eyes. “I hope with all my heart, Horatio, you’ll never find yourself in a position where taking is the only option you have.”

Horatio reaches out, ostensibly for the bottle, but he lets his fingers graze Archie’s hand as he loosens his grip on the glass neck. “There is nothing of mine that I would not give you freely, Archie.”

“There’s nothing I want, Horatio,” Archie assures him, the lie clear in his blue eyes, “save another drink of that fine wine.”

Horatio nods, licking his lips and the mouth of the bottle all at once before passing it across to Archie. “What’s mine is yours. Or so Styles seems to assume.” He reaches out and tugs Archie’s queue, wound tight with his pilfered ribbon. “I don’t expect you to share it with me, Archie.”

“The ribbon?” He asks lightly, his voice cool with a hint of danger. 

“No. Not the ribbon.” He watches Archie take a drink and swallows hard against the thickness of his own throat. “I don’t expect it and I would not ask it, but I do want you to know that I am here for you. Should you…need me.”

“Your friendship is duly noted, Horatio.” His eyes clear as he smiles, the impish light flickering in the depths of them again. “And most appreciated, I assure you. I imagine that I shall find myself leaning on your forbearance and fortitude quite a bit as we spend the rest of our lives here at the Don’s behest.” He chuckles and takes another drink then passes the bottle back. “For, as much as I respect him as a leader, Mr. Squeaks is quite a horrid conversationalist.”

“Is he?”

“Though his Spanish is far better than yours.” Archie shakes his head and sighs, leaning back on his hands and staring up at the ceiling. “Of course, that is not a difficult feat.”

“Indeed it is not, though according to the Don, I’ve quite mastered Quixote’s skill of tilting at windmills.”

“Mr. Hornblower, you had no need of reading Cervantes to master that skill. You were already quite adept.” He tilts his head to the side and looks at Horatio. “The difference, of course, is that where Quixote failed, you inevitably succeed.”

“It is far easier to take on a windmill with 36 guns than with a lance and a very skinny horse.”

“And what if you have neither?” Archie asks softly. “What if all you have is your bare hands, a length of twine and desperation?”

“You judge your windmill very carefully, Archie, and look for its weaknesses.”

Archie nods and reaches for the bottle of wine, setting it on the ground beside the bed. His eyes were dark again, though not the same darkness that clouded them when he thought of the past. “And what do you do, Mr. Hornblower, if the windmill in has no weaknesses at all.”

“Everyone has weaknesses, Archie.”

He nods, moving closer, his eyes intent on Horatio’s lips. Horatio swallows hard and feels his lips parting, on instinct, on desire, he’s unsure. “I hope so, Mr. Hornblower.” He closes the distance between them in the space of a heartbeat, his breath warm on Horatio’s lips, fanning his already warm skin. “By God, I hope so.”

Horatio holds his eyes open as Archie’s lips brush his, finally letting them slide close as Archie’s tongue pushes past the parted flesh into his mouth. He can taste the wine and roasted goose, a rarified diet from their celebration all laid out on Archie’s tongue. He reaches up, his fingers sliding beneath Archie’s queue to the mass of hair above it, threading his fingers into the strands as Archie tilts his head more, deepening the kiss.

Archie makes a low noise and leans in, pushing Horatio back onto the cot, angling his body over Horatio’s. Another noise fills Horatio’s ears, this one followed by cool air and the desperate gasp as Archie moves off the bed, sliding onto the dirty floor. 

“Archie?” Horatio is breathless, his head swimming with wine and want, uncertain as Archie takes a pull from the bottle and refuses to look his way.

“Take what you want, Horatio. Jack taught me that lesson and I’ve learned it well. Lived it. But…but…I apologize. I apologize, Mr. Hornblower. I will not take this.”

“Archie.” Horatio sits up, settling his hand on Archie’s shoulder, holding him down against the floor, his back pressed to the cot. “Do you think that the men of his most Catholic Majesty’s service out there would not stop you and shoot you on sight should you propose to do anything to me without my express consent?”

“There are ways, Mr. Hornblower, of ensuring you don’t make a sound.”

“For all that they share, Mr. Kennedy, death is nothing like pleasure, and to will a man in the throes of pleasure to silence seems a far more dubious proposition than silencing a man’s final cry.” Horatio squeezes Archie’s shoulder carefully, still holding pressure against the muscle and bone. “There is nothing, Archie, that is mine that is not yours. Nothing.”

Archie turns his head and for the first time – even since finding the will to live, to go on, finding his face lashed with spray and saving lives, since returning to prison on Horatio’s honor and parole – Horatio sees a spark of something, of hope in Archie’s eyes he had thought long lost, obliterated by whatever darkness lays across his soul. 

“N-nothing, Mr. Hornblower?” Horatio shakes his head, letting his hand slide free of Archie’s shoulder, watching intently as he gets to his feet and then sits on the bed once again, turning and bracing himself over Horatio once again. “I shall raid your sea chest with impunity then.”

“You are more than welcome to avail yourself of my mathematic textbooks, Archie, as you are no doubt in dire need of a refresher course.” He reaches up, tracing a finger along Archie’s cheek, feeling the heat of his blush of embarrassment, of desire. “I have never done this, Archie.”

He shakes his head and lowers himself, brushing Horatio’s lips gently with his own. For all the weight of his past, the kisses are light and delicate, gossamer. “It’s terribly simple and not so different.” He kisses him again, harder this time, deeper. “Save for that there is nothing the same in it at all.”

Horatio shivers slightly, his legs shifting apart to allow Archie’s body between them, the heavy weight of him settling easily against Horatio. He closes his eyes, catching his breath as Archie’s breeches slide against his, hard flesh against hard flesh beneath. “A-Archie.”

“Quietly, Horatio,” Archie chastises him, shifting his body, letting it slide languidly against Horatio’s. His breath catches and his eyes close and Horatio stares up at him in rapt fascination until the blue is visible again, hazy with want. “As much as I wish to hear those throes of pleasure, I’d rather not bring the guards down on our heads. They are no doubt far drunker than normal, but all the more deadly for it.” 

Horatio angles upward, silencing Archie’s words with another kiss, letting his hand skim up Archie’s broad back to his neck, curving around it to hold him against the kiss, tongues sliding and caressing one another, tasting and experimenting. The words stop, though the soft sounds of pleasure and passion leak through.

He shifts again, unable to find the perfect spot beneath Archie’s weight, unwilling to give up the sensation as their bodies slide together. He feels himself hardening further and thrusts upward, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back as the hard collision of Archie’s flesh sends a flash of unbridled heat through him. 

Archie’s quiet laugh is like a fan to the flame and Horatio thrusts upward again, dissolving the sound into a low groan that seems as if it comes from deep inside Archie’s chest. “Horatio,” he grinds out between clenched teeth, his breath high and reedy in Horatio’s ears. He thrusts down against him and Horatio gasps, his fingers digging into Archie’s neck, his other hand a tight fist in the small of Archie’s back.

“Archie,” he pants, uncaring at the desperate sound of his voice, the thick dryness of it. “Please, Archie.”

Archie shakes his head, lowering himself further onto Horatio, his elbow planted beside Horatio’s head as he slides a hand between them, fumbling in the confines of their bodies to loose buttons and push cloth aside. Horatio groans at the brush of Archie’s hand and his fingers, groans as fabric is moved away, though the chill air around them can’t penetrate the primal heat that surges through his blood as Archie’s bare flesh finds his.

Horatio shudders, body arching off the bed as they begin moving in a rhythm older than time, one that pulses in Horatio’s blood in a way no music ever comes through. He hooks one leg over the back of Archie’s, thrusting hard upward, meeting each downward stroke with a strange kind of desperation, an ache that tightens at the base of his spine until he gasps, breathless and shattered, spilling himself hard and hot against Archie’s skin. Archie groans, the sound almost a growl as he thrusts again, his breath falling on Horatio like hot coals, burning his skin until Archie shudders above him, swamping him in sensation once again.

Archie slumps against him, breathing heavily against the damp skin of Horatio’s neck. He murmurs softly, words that whisper on his flesh. “All right?”

“Other than the fact that you’re obviously no longer starving?” He chuckles softly, his thumb rubbing gently against Archie’s nape. “I would say that you’re understating things. I am far more than all right, Mr. Kennedy.”

Archie laughs just as softly, shaking his head. “And for being locked away in a Spanish prison? You’ve had a Happy Christmas?”

Horatio turns his head and kisses him, finding Archie’s parted lips easily, tasting the tip of his tongue. “Indeed, Mr. Kennedy, though I must admit, I have concerns as to what you might have planned for the New Year.”

“Ah, well, I’m afraid that that, Mr. Hornblower, is a secret.”


End file.
